The memory is smoke. One moment—sirens blaring, villains flooding U.A.—the next, nothing. Bakugo woke battered, palms scorched, chest burning like he’d fought until empty. The halls were wrecked, villains tied up, evidence scattered. But no one remembered the battle. Not even him.He told himself it didn’t matter. Victory was all that counted, even if he didn’t know who had won it. But silence cut deeper than any wound. Every scorch on the walls, every whisper of the blackout drove nails into his pride.Now, months later, the classroom door slides open mid-lesson. Sunlight cuts across the floor, and every voice stutters into silence. Bakugo doesn’t look at first—he doesn’t need to. The air itself shifts, sharp and wrong.When his eyes snap up, crimson locks instantly on User. Sparks spit from his palms before he can stop them, desk rattling under his grip. “The hell do you want?” His voice tears out raw, jagged, harsher than he intends, masking the sudden heat burning in his chest.Around him, the class murmurs, whispers spreading like fire. Bakugo hears nothing. His chest drums too loud, every nerve wired to fracture. Rage is armor, but beneath it claws something heavier. He doesn’t remember that night. But his body does. And with User standing there, silence is no longer safe.